Mr. What the Balls

Managing my website, where I present lots of music and photos, and other stuff, for the last couple of years, has been a lot of fun. First of all, I tend to be an organized person, probably to a fault, which I learned as a result of being in the bakery business, since, if you are not organized in the bakery, you are screwed. So being able to have a lot of songs, links, press, all organized and neat, it’s right up my alley. I use a template offered by HostBaby, an affiliate of web guru Derek Siver’s CDBaby.

When I go ‘round back, to my website statistics administration pages, I can find out all kinds of stuff. Like how many hits my website got yesterday. Or how many times one of my songs was played. Like how many hits I got from Seychelles, or Guam. Or what site a viewer was on, just before they came to my website. As in, who is linked to me. I am not surprised when I see, right up at the top of the list, Google, which is where a person might come from who either typed my name into the search engine, or perhaps stumbled onto a photo from my website on the images section of Google, for some reason or another. And when I see that someone has come from my friend and famous web guy Loup Dargent’s site, I am not surprised, since Loup has reprinted many of my tomes and song links, God bless’m. My HostBaby admin lists maybe 40 “entry” sites like this.

But I was shocked, nay, confused and squish-faced, a couple of weeks ago, when I saw, way up at the top, many hits coming from a “MySpace” site, which I had never seen or heard of before. The site is hyperlinked in my admin, so I clicked on it to see what the heck was going on, and wow. Apparently, this dude, whose fortunate self-made site moniker is “What The Balls”, had given me an entire blog entry on his site! Which I, of course, immediately read.

Mr. What The Balls blog entry, (easily navigate to 2-7-2006 in the archives menu left of the page: you will have to sign on to MySpace) as you will see, if you go there, is, shall we say, somewhat critical of ‘Ol Ricky, and shows photos lifted from my website, along with Mr. What the Ball’s scathing critique. But somehow, when I read it, I couldn’t quit laughing. I sent the link to Marie, and she absolutely loved it.

Mr. What The Balls is a bit stingy with information about himself. There is a photo there, and it is easy to tell that Mr. What The Balls is a young man. But the truth is, he is a young man with a terrific wit, and writing talent to boot. Marie has posted to his site (easily navigate to 2-26-2006 in the archives menu left on the page) several times, much to Mr. What the Balls surprise, I think, but we know talent when we see it. So here’s to Mr. What the Balls, you handsome big hair sucka, thanks for the link, now go fuck yourself.

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The Fa

I am contemplating today’s job of painting our upstairs hallway, sitting here in the same clothes I first put on, oh, 4 days ago. I don’t think I reek, yet, (one never knows), but here’s the deal.

I tend to be a blue collar sorta guy, a guy who loves to work with his hands, and as such, I have spent most of my life doing just that. I put my first workshop together, complete with all the latest gadgets and power tools, when I was 24 years old, and it has only gotten worse. These days, I actually have two workshops, one at home, and one at the commercial building I own, and it is a seldom thing that I have to transport one or another power tool to either location, ‘cause I have whatever I need in both workshops. I am not embarrassed about this. To have it any other way, for a hands workin’ guy, and a motion economy nut, would just be wrong.

So I tend to wear out my jeans, rather quickly, and other clothes, crawling around on some bedroom floor, installing or painting moldings, or repairing a floor, placing an acer platenoides into the hole I just dug in the yard, or getting a big splotch of “Leaftree Green” semi-gloss right on my crotch. I just finished remodeling Marie’s office, which is adjacent to the hallway of which I speak, and I told her, as part of the expense, she would have to buy me a pair of pants.

It’s a lifestyle choice. Yes, I own a suit. Yes, I can meet my attorney for dinner in slacks and a sweater. But basically, GQ I am not. Today, I am gonna really trash out these jeans. But tomorrow, I am going to wake up, and decide to go fishin’, and I am not gonna put on a new pair of jeans to do that. My name is Ric Seaberg, and I tend to be anti-fashion. If you, sir, want to spend your money on fancy clothes, like it’s your hobby or something, cool. But me, I get up, throw on something simple, and get on with it.

I must say I get a kick out of the concept of the TV show, “Queer Eye For The Straight Guy”. I think I might be a candidate. Last year, as I was writing the songs for my 2005 CD “Who Come Down?”, I thought what it might be like if I suddenly turned fashion conscious. The result was my song. “The Fa”. But in truth, I mean the part about me gettin’ all fussy about my clothes, prob'ly not gonna happen.

To hear Ric's fashion song, "The Fa", click below
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Starr Routt

I guess it was somewhere in the Summer of 2003, when Marie and I started talking about Jimmie Rodgers. Sometimes called “The Father of Country Music” (or "The Man who Started It All" as Marie prefers), Marie has a fondness for his music, having grown up listening to him, his 45 rpm yodelin’ singles stuck to the turntable of her family’s brand new Magnavox Stereophonic Record Player. One afternoon, as we dropped Blaine off at work, she just started singing “T For Texas”, every word, to which I inquired “what is that?”.

Jimmie Rodgers (1897-1933) contracted tuberculosis as a young man, but during his 40 years in this world, he cranked out some of the most loved country music ever written, and to my mind, laid some of the groundwork for what would become rock and roll. Almost all of his uptemo tunes can be set to a rockin’ back beat. His songs are accessible for country, country rock, folk rock, even rhythm and blues interpretations. And I am certain there is a Jimmie Rodgers song out there by some reggae band.

My wife Marie comes from humble beginnings, having been raised in very rural Southern Oregon. The mailing address was Star Route, Milo, Oregon, to be exact, until she was 12 years old, when the family moved to Cottage Grove, Oregon, outside Eugene. There was limited radio and no TV reception in Milo, and when Marie got home from The Tiller School, just down the road in Tiller, Oregon, she would busy herself with the kinds of things that rural kids do, read, play with her siblings, maybe make a map of the entire county on butcher paper. Oh, and on her way to the outhouse, there on the banks of the South Umpqua River, she was ALWAYS careful to watch out for Rattlesnakes and Cougars.

But when that Magnavox Stereophonic Record Player arrived home, having been purchased in the big city, Medford, Oregon, it was life changing for Marie. Now she and the family could listen to music whenever they wished. And it wasn’t long before Marie, for her 10th birthday, bought her own 45 rpm record, which happened to be by Jimmie Rodgers.

As we talked about Jimmie Rodgers, and Marie told me how she had played her copy of “T for Texas” to approximate death, there in Milo, I suggested, “You know, we should do our own version of ‘T for Texas’”, since it means so much to you, and you and your family know the song so well. We could give a copy to your Mom, your brothers, and your sister, as a remembrance of those days in Milo”. Marie looked at me like perhaps I had finally gone ALL the way over the edge. “No really”, I said, “I’ll do the music, then you can come in and do the vocal, and then I’ll have Timmy come over and lay down the guitar tracks, it’ll be great, let’s do it!”

"But I can't sing," she reminded me. She grew quiet, and a pensive look passed over her face. "Hmmmm," she continued, "but maybe Starr Routt can..."

After those humble beginnings in Milo, Marie went on to graduate from The University of Chicago, and has become a consumate and respected professional. But bottom line, she’s One Rockin’ Mama.

Here’s the scene. The gravel and pot hole ridden parking lot at Portland’s “D-Street Corral” is packed with cars, and an equal number of workin’ pickup trucks. The refreshments stands inside are jammed, folks lined up for chili dogs and curly fries topped with melted cheese. The beer is cold. The warm-up band “ Great Balls of Fire” was adequate, but the crowd is growing impatient.

Miss Starr Routt primps in her dressing room, tuckin’ her hair up under a turquoise cowgirl hat, while her manager goes over the song list with the band. And then, the lights go down, and the mayhem begins. “Starr Routt”, Starr Routt”, Starr Routt”, the rowdy throngs chant. Starr straightens her sequinned vest near the stage door, as the band takes their places. “Damn, them folks is plain crazy!”, Starr yells above the din, and as the announcer calls her name, she joins the band, smilin’ and wavin’. Starr offers the greeting “HELLO PORTLAND!” over the mic. The crowd roars.

To hear Starr Routt perform Jimmie Rodger’s “T For Texas”, click to download here.
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Caricature of Starr Routt by Rhoda Grossman

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Didn't Say I Love You Right

It was nothing short of a miracle when my wife Marie walked into my life, as I sat contemplating, and probably feeling sorry for myself, under the rose arbor on my corner lot at Southeast 37th and Main, in Portland’s Hawthorne district. After exchanging our hellos, and small talk about my garden, we launched into a feverish email campaign, which resulted in a fabulous and close friendship, then escalating not long after into a full blown courtship. Man, I love my wife, and I am so lucky and grateful to have found her, er, well, I guess she found me, technically.

All that summer of 1997, I would walk down to her house, about 13 blocks from my old crib, and we would sit on her front porch, talk ourselves out, watch the sun go down, maybe have some Middle Eastern dish, or a frozen strawberry daiquiri. It was a blast.

A couple of years later, after Cupid had received a major gold star on his calendar, I found myself, one Sunday morning, reading the paper on that same front porch, as Marie lounged in her porch swing. “Honey” she said in a lazy drawl, like those who work hard all week and sleep late on Sunday are wont to do, did you hear any of “Car Talk” yesterday?” “No”, I replied, “why do you ask?”. “They read a letter from a guy”, Marie then added ,”that you would have loved.”

It’s a “women are from Venus and men are from Mars” story, told first in a letter written by Dan Edwards, and it goes like this: One fine morning, some years back, Dan was walking his girlfriend to her car, when all of a sudden, she says “I love you” for the first time. Dan, taken aback, probably flustered for words, and from Mars, searches his brain (and heart) for the best thing to say, and does, in my opinion, by looking past his sweetheart, to her needy car, for just a moment, and coming up with the most romantic, ”I am gonna have to fix those rust spots on your car.” Now, as any guy knows, making an offer like this is tantamount, nay, beyond a pedestrian reply such as, oh, saying “I love you too” back to his girlfriend. It’s a committment to do some important work for her, fer God’s sake. An effort that would take time and some serious sweat. As in a whole ball-busting day of hard work. But alas, his girlfriend was not impressed by his comment, and sped off to work, revealing later in the day that she thought his reply was “callous and insufficient “.

Marie knew I would love the story, and we chuckled greatly over this couple’s misunderstanding, and in sum, the trouble men and women can get themselves into, mainly cuz, well, they come from different worlds. They must. I thank God that my wife and I can mostly see little issues like these for what they truly are, that is, rooted in the different ways men and women see the world, and generally, not to be taken too seriously. Our horse laughs, rising above the morning mist on Madison street, then inspired my comment, “Poor Dan, I guess he didn’t say “I love you” right.

Several hours later, after those words had burned into a song, I found Marie again on the porch, and strummed and sang to her my version of the vision. “That’s so good”, she offered kindly,”You should send that to the guys on Car Talk”.

So after making a proper recording of the song, I did just that. And some months later, we were pleased that those wacky car talkin’ brothers, Tom and Ray, played it on their show. It was the beginning of a beautiful relationship, and to date, the boys have aired four of my songs, which always results in a spike to my CD sales, and hits to my websites. Click and Clack, you rule.

“Didn’t Say I Love You Right”, which appears on my 2002 CD, “Useful Information”, is likely my second or third most well known song, after “We Talk About Cars”, and “You Are My Folks”, thanks in part to NPR’s Car Talk. The song also made it’s way onto a Car Talk compilation, “Car Talk Car Tunes”. Please accept a free Mp3 download of “Didn’t Say I Love You Right”, here. Here is the original letter, "Love and Rust Spots" as read on CarTalk. Now don’t forget, gentlemen, to tell the woman you love, how much you DO love her, and give her a sweet kiss, as you look deeply into her eyes, and buy her flowers, and chocolates, and THEN go fix the rust spots. Gimme a call, I’ll help ya. I’ve got this brand new killer Makita belt sander, you gotta see it.

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Gadget Guru

I have spent an unacceptable amount of time in my life, thinking about how I might not be like my Father, Bob Seaberg, who was an odd man, narcissistic, sort of a handful. I did love him, and I miss the “nutbrain” (one of his favored terms of condemnation), but I must say, I don’t miss the embarrassment I would feel when I would see him or hear him treat someone, my mother, my sisters, (or me) with complete and utter insensitivity. “Not gonna be that way when I grow up”, has been on my mind far too often.

Okay well my Dad passed away in 1993, and when a person dies, you never get to see them again, which fairly sucks, and starts a person’s tendency to remember the better things about a person, and forget the bad. These days, I remember my Dad’s once annoying behaviors with humour, and perhaps, a bit more wisdom. But when he was alive, dude could piss me off. Once, at his second wedding, (Mom passed away in 1990), he raised his voice to me at the wedding reception, in front of many guests, such that my fine brother- in-law Tom felt compelled to take me aside and express his concern and support. There I was, brow sweating, after having catered the whole affair myself, and as he greeted his guests in the church activity room, he goes on a rant about how I had not “saved” enough of the nicer food offerings for him to eat. “But Dad”, I might have said, “I left the sandwich board sign I was gonna wear, stating “Hey everyone in the food line, leave the shrimp and the stuffed mushrooms alone ‘til the groom has eaten”, at home by mistake, I am SOOOOOOOO Sorrrrrrry!” But of course I said nothing, as usual, not wanting to escalate the tension, or be just like him.

My Dad was a great gadget aficionado, a tendency of his which I recall with great fondness. He worked as an electrical parts salesman, and running in that world, he was always onto some new gadget, or product, to make our lives easier. The “Speedy Weenie” six prong- three dog-hot dog heater upper, pictured above, arrived home about 1956. Talk about convenience. No longer would my mother have to go to the trouble of heating 3 hot dogs in water. I’ll tell ya, what a great time to be alive. Check this thing out. You thread the hot dogs onto the prongs, and they sit there in a sort of a half moon shape, and then you plug it in. Basically, 110 volts of electricity would shoot through each dog, heating it in the process. A wonder of modernity. Just don’t forget to unplug it. Cuz if your child happens by, and grabs those prongs while it’s still plugged in, they might die. Lemme guess. The Speedy Weenie was eventually pulled from shelves because of the potential danger to the user. Dah! And I will never forget the little red “Thirstee” plastic outdoor drinking fountain, pictured here, that came in the mail one day back then, much to my Father’s glee, and I remember him hooking it up to the hose bib on the side of the house, which unfortunately, was about a foot from the ground, but I did take a few slurps outa the thing, on my knees. “Ahhhh”, I’m sure I said as I wiped the refreshing drink from my lips, “And I didn’t even have to use that unclean and bacteria ridden hose end for a drink!” But alas, at our house, the Thirstee Fountain wouldn’t stay perpendicular to the bib, it was way loose, for some reason, so everytime you might want to use it, you had to hold it in place, and then, I recall that the stream of water was so tiny, that a nine year old boy might be tempted to just go back to the ol’ hose for a drink.

My dear Mom, who was a whiz in the kitchen, had a succession of Feemster Slicers, supplied by Dad, to help her with her kitchen duties. I believe you can still buy these things, a sort of early day chef’s “mandolin” slicer, where one strikes the carrot against the oh so sharp blade, and if you are lucky, keep your thumb tips attached to your body. I once cut myself horribly on one of these things, running some veggie through.

My Dad didn’t live long enough for me to present him with a convenient and money saving “Soap Slivers Compression Apparatus”, which I once spotted in a Miles Kimball catalog, in the stack he kept by his recliner. Talk about a gadget whose time has come! You keep all those little soap pieces, you know, the ones that have gone “face to butt” aproximately 400 times, and when you get enough of them, you put them in this manual compressor thing, sort of a soap vice, and voila, you have created another big and fresh bar of soap! And if you’re lucky, you might end up with a fragrance unknown to nature, such as the newly invented and unusual scent of Irish Spring, added to a sliver of organic Rosemary soap, combined with, among others, the pungent aroma of that “Chocolate Moose” soap bar you found in your Christmas stocking!

So I come by my love of gadgets honestly, a trait I inherited from my Dad, (the only trait!) like my love of power tools, for example, especially the new 18 volt battery ones, they’re awesome. And it is true that, two summers ago, faced with needing a new air conditioner for my office/studio, I did select the one that comes with a remote, such that, as I sit recording, I can flip it on and off from across the room, “On” when not recording, and “Off” when the mics are hot.

And I do have my entire yard irrigation system tweaked, which requires 4-option diverters on each of our four hose bibs, which is initiated by many timers. And the big waterfall which graces our pond, well, it has a remote control too.

My wife Marie is everything to me, beautiful, sexy, smart, kind, generous, funny, a great writer, my best friend, like I said, everything. And she is kind to look the other way, most times, as I bring home, since it’s in my genes, various and sundry gadgets. But when she put down her foot, and said that she would not abide my desire to buy remote contolled venetian blinds, so that we would no longer have to climb on the couch to shut them, honey, that’s just wrong.


Stream a clip of Ric's "Dad" Song "King Omega LTD"

My story in annoying detail:

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The Junior Rose Festival 1958

It’s raining like the devil right now, “liquid sunshine” as we call it here in Portland, Oregon, but as I walked the Bichons this morning, I saw that the Andromeda is beginning to bloom, a sure sign that Spring has almost sprung. Two large, blossom heavy Andromeda, pungently fragrant, in our next door neighbor’s yard, trumpet the arrival of Spring in our neighborhood every year. As soon as we get some sun, sometime next week, I am certain that, as I leave my house, and my nose catches that fragrance, it will slap me into Spring.

In Portland, when the Spring arrives, and June is on the way, that’s when the powers that be swing into action for the presentation of Portland’s annual “Rose Festival”. The Rose Festival, which takes place in June, is nearly 100 years old, and is described on the Rose Festival website as “an annual Northwest celebration, hosting over two million people each year. This month-long civic celebration creates unforgettable memories for local citizens and visitors, and generates millions of dollars to positively impact the region's economy.”

Roses grow amazingly well in Oregon, with our temperate climate. We do get our share of rain, but our summers are mild and beautiful, and roses basically grow like weeds. There are several beautiful civic rose gardens in Portland, and the Rose Festival, obviously, takes advantage of our great rose weather.

Rose Festival events include actual Rose Covered Float parades, a big amusement park built just for the month on the Willamette River waterfront, scores of fun events, and a Princess Court, as selected from each Portland high school. There is also a “Junior Rose Festival “ court, as chosen from the grade schools.

In 1958 , when I was 10 years old, I was in Mrs. McIntyre’s 3rd and 4th grade mixed class, at my grade school alma mater, Atkinson, in southeast Portland, at the foot of Mt. Tabor. To make a long story short, I was selected to vie for “Jr. Rose Festival” prince, (I was an outgoing child) because in 1958, boys were still asked to participate in the Jr. Rose Festival Court, as princes, basically escorts for the girls who were chosen as princesses. I do recall that the process, for a little boy, was a bit rigorous, interviews and such, but I hung in there, and was selected to represent my school.

Some weeks later, a competition was held at Portland’s Bagdad Theatre, where kids from the other 12 grade schools in the area, and me, gave a speech in hopes of being selected to represent school district #6, as a Junior Rose Festival prince or princess. My speech, a short little ditty mostly penned by my stage mother Mom, around the theme of “being proud”, which I delivered like a total ham, and still remember, went:

“You know that I’m proud to be here tonight.
You know that i’m proud of my school.
I want you, and my school, to be proud of me......
So I thank you for the chance to make my plea.
I’ll do my best, as a cub scout should......
If you choose me tonight, I’ll try to make good.

And now it is my proud pleasure to present to you,
my princess.......Miss Patricia Israel!

I was shocked and “proud” to be chosen as prince. The little girl who won as princess, Charlotte Larson, and I were whisked away to both of Portland’s newspapers for photos and interviews. Seeing my mug in the paper the next morning was a treat, and made me feel as though I had accomplished something. Our next door neighbor, Roland, who was like a big brother to me, and who was also our early morning newspaper boy, fashioned camelia petals to form the word “YEA!, which was waiting for me to see on our front porch when I awoke, on that beautiful and sunny May morning.

The next several weeks were a whirlwind of being wined and dined and well, treated like royalty. For starters, I got the last two weeks of school off! Each morning, my princess Charlotte and I would be picked up by the little convertible VW shown here, with our names emblazoned on the side, and delivered to some extravagant event, like lunch at the zoo, visits to hospitals and fancy restaurants, complete with favors and gifts for each of us. We were treated to plays and performances, ship and factory tours, TV appearances, and were positioned on our own float in several parades, and on and on. I am reminded of what a wonderful moment in time that was for me, as I gaze upon all the photos in the complete scrapbook my mother kept. It was an amazing, confidence building experience for a kid.So I was saddened to learn some years later, that due to financial constraints, and perhaps since being a prince was deemed a less than manly and acceptable thing for a young boy to do (there were those on my little league team who insisted on calling me “princey” for the rest of the summer) the Rose Festival Association had decided to eliminate boys from The Junior Rose Festival. I think it’s kind of a shame. I guess I was just in the right place at the right time.

I still live in southeast Portland, and go by the Bagdad theatre almost every day, and basically, love it here. The Rose Festival is coming up soon, with it’s many events and regalia, and economic opportunity for businesses and citizens. I keep my eye on the schedule in the paper, and as I drive across the Hawthorne bridge, I can see the giant Ferris Wheel on the waterfront, and sometimes smell the corn dogs and frying onions as I pass by. I don’t go to many of the events. But I still remember with great fondness The Rose Festival 1958, and how it had a huge impact on me, when I was a child. My memory of it reminds me how important it is to tell the 10 year-olds in my life how special they are.

My story in annoying detail:

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Super Bowl Bound!

Not to be outdone by their Super Bowl bound brother, Joseph, (our grandson), Colin (right) and Owen (left) sport matching head shaves, depicting the Seahawks fans' coat of arms, the numeral "12", which symbolizes fans' standing as the 11-man football teams' "12th man". Joseph and his Dad, Tim, will be leaving for The Motor City on Saturday morning. My daughter Stacey has strict instructions to TIVO the game, because Joseph doesn't want to miss the commercials!Colin and Owen decide to get serious!

Stream Ric's song "Superbowl Andy" here
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Seahawks Rule!

Super Bowl 40 arrives next weekend, when millions of women and mostly men will sit before their newly purchased 60” plasma screens and go hoarse rooting for either the Pittsburgh Steelers, led by the coyote ugly, major sourpuss coach Bill Cowher, or The Fantastic Seattle Seahawks, led by the fatherly and fashionable coach Mike Holmgren. Guess who we like at our house?

We love the Super Bowl. Every year we host a party, which is attended by several of our closest friends, who could basically not care less about football, but love to come see what kinda crazy shit we dream up for The Big Day. In 2005 we were into Tacky Foods, as I related in my Super Bowl Blog Entry last year, including, among other things, Cool Whip Trifle, which I must admit is one killer dessert. Blaine and I always request that Marie come up with the party theme, ‘cause we want her to be invested too, for if it were just about football, well, I am afraid we might lose her to some fabric sale, where zillions of women go to spend Super Bowl Sunday, away from the maddening crowds of stinky, rowdy, drunk husbands and brothers and sons, with their Nacho Cheese and Chili breath, lounging in the confines of formerly pristine and foofy living rooms and dens of America, scratchin’, belchin’, and sayin’ fuck real loud.

This year, Marie has asked us to each come up with a food of some kind that starts with either a S or an B, get it?, the first letter of the words Super and Bowl. So I am going to order a Beef Tenderloin Roast, bake it, slice it, and pour a healthy amount of Burgundy Reduction over the whole thing, as in Beef Burgundy, which truly fills the need for a letter B food. I could use some ideas for some other S or B foods though. Any suggestions?

We are extra pumped this year too, since my grandson Joseph and his Dad are actually gonna be there, in Detroit, somewhere in the nosebleed section, hollering for all of us. My daughter Stacey holds a couple of Seahawks season tickets, and when they held the lottery to see which ticket holders would be offered Super Bowl tickets, she won! So Joe and his Dad will fly to Detroit and likely come home with a pile of souvenirs and great memories.

As you can see from the photo above, Blaine and I are ready to roll. We made those Packers Cheese Heads into Blue Cheese Heads several years ago, because, oh I dunno, I guess ‘cause we are big Hawks fans, whose main team color is blue, and we have been a’wishin’ and a’hopin’ for the Hawks to go to the Super Bowl for years. I myself was living in Seattle, all those years ago when the franchise was established, and the Kingdome, which has already been demolished, was built. I once owned a framed and very large pen and ink drawing of the Seattle skyline, titled “My Silver City”, by Seattle artist Christopher Bollen, which depicted the Kingdome half finished. So I go way back with the Hawks, and we are gonna be there, watchin’ the game, screamin’ our asses off for Matt and Shaun and Bobby and Coach Mike, and Jim Zorn, and running back Curt Warner, and all the other guys who played on lesser Seahawks teams over the years, all the while suckin’ down our Buds and Millers and Beef Burgundy. Feel free to stop by. I’ll be the one with beef blood stains on my white tank top, and if we win, tears in my eyes.

Stream Ric's song "Superbowl Andy" here
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The Birdhouse

I guess it was a couple of years ago, when Marie and I were watching, yet again, a gardening show on HGTV, called “Curb Appeal”. At the end of the show, as the host was revealing the final appointments on the improved home’s “streetside”, we couldn’t help but be impressed with a large birdhouse she had installed, which had been built to match the main house, almost exactly. We oohed and ahhed a bit, but basically just sat there with our mint juleps, and didn’t budge.

About a year later, we found ourselves watching the same show again, same episode. Old people, like us, sometimes forget when they have seen a show before, and just go ahead and watch it again, as if it were new to them. Well, or so it seems.

Ric: We’ve seen this before.
Marie: We have? I don’t remember it.
Ric: I think it might be the one with the birdhouse.
Marie: What birdhouse?
Ric: You know, the birdhouse at the end of the show, the one that looks just like the house.
Marie: I dunno, maybe I fell asleep.
Ric: Nooooo, you saw it honey, we talked about it, you remember.......
Marie: What’s in that cup? Are you drinking too much coffee?

So we watched the show, and Marie did remember it finally, at the very end, when they showed the birdhouse. This time, when the credits rolled, we looked for the name of the designer. Later, I found the designer’s email address on the internet, and emailed her, requesting any information she could give me about the birdhouse, as in basically, where she got it. A couple of days later I received a reply, and a phone number.

After several calls and emails, and even snail mail, which included some actual pieces of our home’s roof, and color swatches of our actual house color, and front door color, sent to the artist, we received our Giant Bitchin Birdhouse in the mail. It was made by collectible birdhouses.com. My nephew Max and I installed it in our front yard, and I later put a light fixture on the post, which is timed to go on at dusk and off at dawn. It’s fun to see folks stop and take a look, and then realize it looks just like the big house behind it. Here are a couple more photos. If you ever wondered what our house looks like, this is it. One could imagine me, somewhere in the front room, just past the porch’s picture window, slumped down in my chair, suckin’ down some cold strong coffee, probably my wife’s leftovers from 8 a.m.
Here is our actual house, with concrete wheelchair ramp


A rear view of the birdhouse, including our deck and kitchen bay window. Note the round "clean out" on the left.

My story in annoying detail:

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BRANGELINA!....THE SONG

As I noted only two entries ago, standing in the grocery line, and reading the headlines of the gossip magazines, causes me great pleasure, whether it’s about poor Whitney Houston’s alleged drug use, or whether Oprah is currently fit or fat, or if that woman Jennifer from Friends is still mad at her ex Brad Pitt, all that stuff. Last week, as I stood giggling, I became fascinated with the way gossip reporters have taken to combining the names of celebrities who are coupled, like when they used “Bennifer” for Jennifer Lopez and Ben Afleck, and most recently, “Brangelina”, to conveniently, I guess, shorten the names Brad and Angelina. Thank God, as I sit at dinner with my family, railing on about their relationship, that I don’t have to be constantly referring to them by using their whole first names.

Perhaps it’s a trend whose time has come. It’s perfectly alright with me, dear reader, if you choose, as you discuss my blog with your family over fish sticks and corn, to refer to my wife and me as “Rarie”, that is, the combination of the names Ric and Marie, pronounced Ruh-Ree.

So I had to write a song about it. My buddy Tim Ellis came over yesterday and laid down the guitar tracks, and I mixed it this morning. I have decided to make this one a freeby, since it is quite possibly the nichiest song I have ever produced, and therefore likely to be interesting to perhaps 5 people. However, I must say, I think it came out well, Tim’s parts are stellar as usual, and I really like the melody. So here it is, for your approval, for free download, or stream. The lyrics appear below. Please feel free to send the link on to anyone you wish.

Listen to "Brangelina", the song. here

My story in annoying detail:

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Glory Days

I never liked Bruce Springsteen’s song “Glory Days” that much, even though I totally agree with the message, ‘cause it kinda creeps me out how some people tend to live in the past. When I hear the song, it just reminds me of all the crazy shit I did when was a kid, even though there were good times, like the time I ran for president of the junior class, and since I was sick with some sort of infection and in the hospital, my buddy Jim Knutson actually got up in front of those 500 students and read my speech. What a pal. And I can’t help but giggle when I think of the time I pulled my 1959 blue and white Ford Galaxie off the road on Mt. Tabor, into the bushes of the park, and commenced hot and heavy petting with a girl I had met at a party, only to be accosted some hours later by the sound of metal tapping briskly against the car window, a giant four D-Cell battery size flashlight, handled by one of Portland’s finest, who made me put my shirt on. A couple years later, when I heard that line in the Loggins and Messina song “Your Mama Don’t Dance”, which went ....“Out of the car, longhair!”, I could identify.

So you won’t catch me going on and on at dinner, or over a beer, about the good old days, but I do have to admit I like to write about it. In my daily life, I believe I am a “be here now” kinda guy, which of course follows since we live right next to the Dharma Rain Zen Center. Sometimes, when I am walking my two little white dogs past the open windows of the center, on a gorgeous Portland summer day, I think I should get involved with that church, start meditatin’, but going to that extent, I dunno, it seems kinda self indulgent. I have too many people and dogs and things to take care of to spend time meditatin’. But I do try to live in the moment, and I think it is important to try to remember to do that, to not always be playing “what if” in my mind. As I pass the center, and hear the chanting of the folks inside, it reminds me to breathe, to notice my breathing, and the wind in the trees, and the sun on my shoulders, and to remember the love of my wonderful wife, waiting for me with a cup of coffee and her warm laughter, when I get back home.

So forgive me for digressing to the time, playing touch football at the Atkinson Grade School park, when my friend Danny Roisom, one of the fiercest competitors I have ever met, was carrying the ball around his team’s left end, and as he reached me, and I went to touch him down, he rared back, and in a motion meant to look, I guess, like a straight arm, basically cold-cocked me with a right cross to the left side of my head. Of course I did not touch him down, and as he raced for the touchdown, I stood up, dazed and confused, and fully pissed, and called him out, which resulted in a very boring half hour, during which the much bigger Danny basically sat on my chest and slapped me around, until the rest of the guys were sick of it and wanted to get on with the game. And forgive me if I bring up the time, in Johnny Clement’s attic, in the seventh grade, while snuggling with Patti Eaton, I asked her if we might attempt the World’s Longest Kiss, to which she replied, “no thanks”. Maybe it was the pepperoni and onion pizza that Johnny’s swell Mom Alice had provided us earlier, with those killer homemade chocolate shakes she sometimes offered.

And forgive me for telling the story of my old band, The Morning Reign, and our appearance on the popular Paul Revere and the Raiders hosted TV show “Happening “68”, when, dressed in our groovy brown and tan blazers, we lip-synched and instrument-synched on national TV to our own rockin’ version of an obscure Standell’s song, “Can’t Help But Love You, Baby”. Having won a Northwest “Battle of the Bands”, we arrived in L.A. in the summer of 1968, did some sightseeing and recording, played a gig with “The BoxTops”, and appeared on the show. As you can see from the photo above, (that’s me sitting in the middle, bottom) we looked hokey enough, but we were runner’s up to the grand prize, which was a recording contract, and that was okay, cuz what we did each win (there were 6 of us) was samsonite luggage, a portable black and white TV, 3 power tools including a drill, a circular saw, and a jigsaw....which basically gave me my start learning how to build....a tomato soup colored portable record player, which, though dwarfed by an LP, also had an AM/FM radio, and some other prizes I can’t remember. The judges were Bobby Sherman, Brenton Wood (The Oogam Boogam Song, Gimme Little Sign), and this guy Sajid Kahn, an up and coming young actor, who apparently faded to “where are they now” status, but he was a nice guy, and they all entertained us with stories of their Hollywood lives as we each scarfed a hot dog, during a filming break, at the hot dog stand on the lot.

Being on “Happening 68” didn’t exactly make us famous, though we did get our picture in some fan mags, and TV guide. But playing with “The Box Tops”, that week, even though our "Beatles medley" sucked, was the best. Standing there, all young and naive and foolishly proud, in our groovy brown and tan blazers, signing autographs for a throng of teenyboppers in the parking lot after the gig, that’s glory days.

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Brangelina!

Occcasionally, over the years, like most people, I have bumped into a celebrity, running about on my errands, dining out, gigging with my old rock band, maybe at a sporting event. Such was the case, in about 1993, while I sat in a Portland restaurant, the old “Vat and Tonsure”, sipping my Gamay Beaujolais, perusing my menu, when suddenly, I looked up to see, several feet away, after he had shut the restaurant door behind him, movie star Timothy Hutton, who was in town filming “The Temp”. Our eyes met, he managed a friendly “How ya doin’?”, and moved on. I didn’t lay eyes on him again, but we could hear him above the restaurant noise, later, laughing heartily, no doubt trying to keep up with my own unrestrained wine drinking. The restaurant was abuzz with the news of his attendance. I could see waiters and waitresses fawning about his table, and even our own waitress reported his presence to us as we began to dismantle our rosemary stuffed game hens.

Other celebrities I claim to have had brief encounters with are Gore Vidal, Desi Arnaz, Dick Cavett, Willie Nelson, Trini Lopez, Jim Morrison, Pia Zadora, David Ogden Stiers, and Joanne Worley, who, when I met her, bestowed upon me her signature wail, which was used unsparingly on the old “Laugh-In” TV show.

For some reason, I have never been given to hero worship, and though these sightings and encounters have stuck with me, I guess I am not that impressed with celebrities, or rock stars, the famous. Maybe if I knew them personally, had some idea of what kind of person they truly were, you know, what kind of parents they are, if they are kind to others, if they pay their bills on time, if they have any truly respectable talents, like carpentry, or computer skills, I mean, besides landing a part on a TV show, or headlining on the gossip rags of America.

Once, strolling my Old Portland Neighborhood with a former spouse, who shall remain nameless, we stumbled upon a local female news anchor, who was having a glass of wine with a neighbor on his front steps. We were introduced, and I could see that my former spouse was beside herself with glee and tension, as she stood red faced, tripping over her every word, and exclaiming amazing and embarrasing hero worship like statements, as in, “Ohmigod, it IS you!” I don’t get it.

So you can imagine my astonishment, as I digress into a mouth breathin’ gawker, standing in the grocery checkout line, reading the front covers of magazines and periodicals, touting the latest news about famous couples, like Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt. This most fascinating union has been conveniently shortened by The Gossip and Paparazzi Industry to “Brangelina”, such that we can all use the abbreviation, to save our breath, when we are gabbing for hours on the phone and in the coffee shops of America about their relationship. Apparently, their impending marriage has been cancelled, since the cover photo of Angelina and her full lips is accompanied by the headline, “Wedding Is Off”. Godammit! I thought they were so right for each other.

Earlier couple couplings included “Bennifer”, a fitting and advantageous shortening of Ben Afleck and Jennifer Lopez, but, sadly, she dumped him for Mark Anthony.

Standing in my checkout line, I also saw that Whitney Houston is back on dope, and, judging by the photo they got of her, this time, it’s pretty bad. Ever since she got together with that damn Bobby Brown, she’s just been goin’ downhill. This time, her ”Shocking New Cocaine Binge” could finally spell disaster. Oh Whitney! As soon as I finish reading the Laci Peterson pregnancy diary, I am gonna figure out how you can get rid of that asshole.

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Pincushion

My wife Marie loves to sew, and quilt, and is a believer in the old sewer’s adage, “Whoever has the most fabric when they die wins”. Marie comes up with original and interesting sewn things, pillows and curtains for our 1964 Airstream, quilts for home and newborn grandchildren, specially designed potholders for departing employees, on and on. It’s fun to see what she comes up with. Being driven to creativity myself, I appreciate having a partner whose creative life is abloom. With Marie, beyond sewing, there’s filmmaking, writing, and art. Not to mention her creative flair in the kitchen. But sewing is at the top, I think, as far as level of enjoyment goes, for Marie. I picture her sitting on the couch, at home, or at the beach house we favor in Bandon, Oregon, in her irridescent pink half-glasses, beavering away at some new quilt design, looking up at the TV news only occasionally to catch a view of something she deems newsworthy enough to require her attention. Last summer, as I fished the incoming tide of the Coquille River, she banged out a cute and cuddly quilt for our newest grandchild, Ellery.

Marie’s office, in our home, which doubles as a sewing room, and triples as a fabric warehouse, tends to pile up with all things artistic, and she has recently been designing some new shelving for Ric to build, as soon as we move the couch outa there. This will allow for a much greater degree of organization, so I am all for it. All those scissors, pincushions, and piles of fabric will be much easier to find, and less likely to go astray.
I guess it was about 5 years ago now, while walking through our bedroom, which is a stone’s throw away from Marie’s office, when I stepped on the pincushion. Marie had already left for work that morning, and my caffeine level was not quite yet to 100%, as I moved from the bathroom back into the bedroom, coffee cup in hand, in my blue Seahawks bathrobe, and that’s when it happened. Apparently, the pincushion, the big red one, Marie’s principal pincushion, had wormed it’s way, unbeknownst to it’s primary user, from the sewing table in her office, to the bedroom floor, smack dab in the middle of the bedroom walking pattern. Suddenly, with nary a glimpse of forewarning, the southernmost point of my body, the ball of my left foot, just past the toes, propelled by my strappin’ 200 pound frame, slammed down on that prickly cushion, pin points facing up.
Maybe you can visualize the moment, that split second, before I reacted to the pain, as I stood in my robe, after just taking a sip of coffee, my cup still inches from my lips, looking straight ahead, my eyes suddenly grown to the size of salad plates.

The pain, then, was immediate, and excruciating, and, though I am generally not lost for words, this time, pretty much indescribable. The coffee went flyin’. I hit the floor.
You hear about people liftin’ cars n’shit, when the time comes for quick emergency action, to save someone, or save oneself. I think I may have been in that zone. I am certain that I didn’t say a word, I was movin’ too fast to yell, or complain. Within a very short amount of time, seconds, I decided to rip that thing off my foot. There was no time to make a considered decision. The decision was already made, somewhere in the depths of the self-preservation section of my right cortex. Get that fucking thing offa me.
This part I can describe, the removal part, which also happened at a rather fast rate of speed, as one might rip off a band-aid, or one of those waxing strips like they use on those hairy guys in movies and on TV. With my right hand, I peeled off the cushion, pin row by pin row, as quickly as I could from its imbedment, and as I did, and I swear to you this is the truth, and you can go ahead and try it if you don’t believe me, it sounded, and felt, as it released from my foot, exactly like Velcro.

There was very little blood, I dunno why, maybe cuz the pins are so thin, and the second I got it off, I just fell on my back and laid there, my head flat on the oak floor, for a minute or so. My eyes had filled with water, and I am sure I breathed a major sigh of relief as I grimaced and considered what had just happened. The pain immediately subsided, and as I cleaned up my foot, I was already starting to get into the humor of it, and considering how I might describe the event to Marie, with my tongue in my cheek, and blame her for it.

It was all kinda interesting, I mean the Velcro effect and all, but I hope not to come down full force on another pincushion anytime soon, interesting or not, and experience yet again the kind of pain usually reserved for those on the way to their maker. However, if I get a paper cut in my office, or put a hammer down on my thumb in the basement, or skin my knees in the garden, I am gonna run like hell to my dear wife, my lower lip pursed, for some more a’that pamperin’.



Marie is such a sweet and tender angel of mercy, as evidenced by the massive amounts of love and care she has extended to our son Blaine, with his physical challenges, and she didn’t disappoint when I told her my story, later that day, by expressing sincere and total sympathy for a guy with a thousand holes in his left paw. After her outburst of empathy and kindness, I couldn’t go on with my planned sick charade of incrimination and finger pointing for something that was, of course, just one of those things. I was enjoying the mothering too much.

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Motown Man

Every Christmas, Marie, Blaine and I pull out the ridiculous number of Christmas CDs we have accumulated, and actually listen to them. We have some great ones, in the pile, traditional, contemporary, even some over the top novelty stuff. But there is one artist who has been missing from our collection, so I rectified that this week by ordering “The Very Best Of Stan Freberg”, which holds that much adored Christmas classic, “Green Christmas”. When I was a kid, I completely loved Stan Freberg, and I count him among my musical (and lyrical) influences.

I opened the CD just minutes ago, and took it to show my step-son Blaine, who holes up in his room each morning readying for the day. As I sit and write, I can hear the CD emanating from his room downstairs, not only “Green Christmas”, but other nutty Freberg efforts, “John and Marsha”, and some off the wall version of “The Great Pretender” (Oh yes, I’m the great preteh-ender).

It’s weird hearing that CD wafting out of his room. Usually, Blaine has his radio set on an “oldies” station, and later, as he sits at his computer, the oldies continue, as his iTunes shuffle, maybe some Beatles, and lots of Motown, The Temptations, The Four Tops, Smokey Robinson.

When I met Blaine Deatherage-Newsom in 1997, he had just graduated form Wilson High school here in Portland, and, given his disabilities, it was quite a feat. The Gods of Education have shone down on Blaine, in many ways, his formal schooling, his Mom's influence, his extra curricular reading, his web cruising, his work experience. Never mind that he is a sponge for facts and figures. And one area that he has somehow come to embrace and excel at is, well, anything “Motown”. Marie is a big Motown buff, and they both LOVE the music, so that’s probably the root of it. But Blaine has basically got it down to a science. Sure, there are a few things he might not know about Motown. All I know is, when you need a Motown lifeline on “Who Wants To Be A Millionaire”, you couldn’t do much better than givin’ ol' Blainey a call.

To honor Blaine for his secondary school achievement, that year, his Mom (my future wife Marie) had been planning a special congratulatory trip for him. to Cleveland, to see “The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame”, and to Detroit, to take in the recording studio where Berry Gordy and the early stars of Motown plied their trade, “Hitsville, U.S.A.” Marie invited me to go, and it was just a fantastic, fun trip, as I have expanded on here before. And besides being a blast, I think we all decided, on that trip, that we were gonna be a family.

A couple of years ago, likely after a stellar display of Motown knowledge, I retired to my studio to compose a song about Blaine, which is titled “Motown Man”. It appears on my 2005 CD “Who Come Down”. Here’s a clip:
Hi-Fi (Broadband)
Lo-Fi (Dial-up)

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Dancin'

Ya shoulda seen me, back there in about 1969, shakin’ my tailfeather like Mick Jagger, while beltin’ out Steppenwolf’s “Magic Carpet Ride”, which I sang every time we did a show, phonetically, since I had no idea what the actual words were. Standing in front of a wall of Marshall amps, on stage with my old band “The Morning Reign”, while Steve Tate and Doug Heatherington laid down a capable backbeat to a Van Morrison tune, maybe “Domino”, or our own rockin’ version of “You Left The Water Runnin”, just made a guy feel like dancin’. I’m not positive, but I think maybe the fact that I was 21 years old may have also worked it’s way into my dance fever. I can remember, after a night of 4 or 5 rockin’ sets, maybe 50 songs, in a hell hole like the old Eugene Armory, being soaked to the skin. I dunno, jumpin’ around up there to the music, it’s just what a rock star wannabe does.

Cut to 2005, where I found myself with my perfect wife Marie, recently, at ground zero during a FreeGeek function, face to face with a local rock band. “Dance with me” Marie hollered over the din, rising from her chair enthusiastically with a smile and a wiggle.

Now, it’s not like I don’t have music in me. I’m still crankin’ out the tunes, and as some of you know, I do know how to rock. But suddenly, sitting there, in that venue where the B.O. is plenty, and the microphone still smells like a beer, geez, I just wasn’t interested. “C’mon Ric”, I said to myself, “What’s wrong with you, you old codger”.

I was kind of shocked really, that I wasn’t more willing and excited to jump up, just like in the old days, and git partyin’. After all, I WAS all hopped up on Atenolol, Lipitor, Zyrtec, Protonix, Plavix and Aspirin. You’d think, with all those drugs in my system, I’d be like a party animal. Plus, I’d had a glass of wine. When I finally did join Marie, it was fun. But getting me there, I admit, was a bit like pulling a tooth. Dancin’, these days, for me, just doesn’t hold the appeal it once did. Maybe it’s aging, maybe it’s self consciousness and body image, maybe dancin’ sucks.

On Christmas, Marie presented me with the certificate pictured below, (it was in my stocking) which says “ This certificate entitles Ric Seaberg to a 10-week class of ballroom dancing with his wife.....instruction in fox trot, salsa, tango and waltz included. Redeem at any dance studio, immediately after attending a play of your choice....Enjoy, Love, Marie”. When I first read it, I must admit that I experienced an overwhelming moment of fear that she might be serious. Seconds later, we all cracked up at her teasing, including my step-son Blaine, who loves it when anything gets under my skin. She threw that part about attending a play in there, since she knows how much I love to spend 2 or 3 hours in a stuffy little off the beaten path theatre, watching fine local actors and actresses vie for Drama King and Queen of Portland, wailing out their lines to a brand new piece of art written by an angry and confused twenty something. Forgive me.

After talking to Marie about her little joke, turns out, her position is that guys always tell you they are big on dancin’, and then, after they catch you, they suddenly lose interest. “Did I do that?”, I said to her, as she nodded her head yes. Okay honey, sorry. I’m just gettin’ t’be a fuddy duddy. Thanks for the kick in the pants. I’m ready t’go out and soul shake the night away anytime. But no plays okay?

Check out my song "Love You Anyway" from my 2003 CD "Regards From The Roombar" where I actually mention the play thing.

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Unfortunate Moniker

Years ago, back in the days of the original “Truth or Consequences” TV show, starring a much younger Bob Barker, I would sometimes find myself, before the blessing of remote controls, watching the show. On one particular occasion, as I watched, the consequences for not answering the nutty question Bob had posed to several contestants, was that the contestants were made to go out into the world, and for the following week, dig up as many people as they could with the most unusual of names, and convince them to return to the show, to receive a prize. For some reason, I actually saw the next show, ( I didn’t plan it, I swear to God) which produced the results of the contestant’s research. The contestants had gone forth, and had taken to cruising phonebooks, for weird names, and cold calling.

The contestants provided some real winners, which I have never forgotten. One woman, who was pleased to return to the show for her assortment of blenders and Samsonite luggage, had been named Rosemary, at birth, and with the last name of Hose, had endured a lifetime of ridicule and abuse as the holder of the truly unfortunate moniker “Rose Hose.”

There was an older man named “Safety Furst”, and another older man, whose parents were havin’ some kinda fun, at naming time, considering their last name of National, and surely splittin’ a gut when they wrote “First” on the birth certificate. I dunno, maybe they were hoping for a star wide receiver, or a movie star, whose unusual moniker may have been more of a help than a hindrance. All I know is, besides buying prunes in a lunch line, having the name First National could be one of the most embarrassing things ever.

In about 1973, my spouse at the time was working for Safeway, and one evening, after arriving to pick her up, I entered the store. The produce guy at that store, in Renton, Washington, was a gentleman named Larry Azolla. Apparently, someone had just called the store and asked for Larry, because, as I entered the store, one of the produce assistants, who had just taken a call in the main store office, was on the public address system, announcing his name. It was at this moment that I heard, loudly, and clear as a bell, with everyone else in the store, this young man's attempt at comedy, as he announced, "Larry Ass-hole-uh, telephone for Larry Ass-hole-uh please, line one for Larry Ass-hole-uh", several times. Kind of a stretch, making Azolla into Ass-hole-uh, but I admit, it was funny, and as I recall, he got away with it.

I am curious about unfortunate monikers. Any other stories out there? My mother knew a woman named Anna Versarie. What are parents with the last name of Moss thinking when they name their son Pete? Do you have anyone in your life with an unusual or unfortunate moniker? I’d like to know.

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Time For Love

Allow me to wish you all the most merry of Christmases, the coolest Kwanza, a grand pagan gathering, and a magnificent Hannuka, this year, as you celebrate your Spiritual Life.

It has been a fantastic year at our house. My step-son Blaine has continued his volunteering at FreeGeek, here in Portland, and has become such a go-to guy there that I don’t think they could live without him. We are so totally proud of him for all he has learned and how he is committed to his work. And I have to add that, given his disabilities, the fact that he makes such a great effort to go down there everyday and make a difference, is awe-inspiring. Way to go Blainester!

Marie and I became proud and ecstatic grandparents again, when youngest daughter Amy gave birth to Ellery. Ellery came through energetic but calm, and when they visit, I love to hold her, when I can get her away from my wife.

2005 will go down for us as the year of my wife Marie’s first film, which is titled “Finding RevPhil”, and it's a huge hit. Everytime I was at a showing, and people were laughing their butts off, I felt so proud of her. It’s a great short. You gotta see it.

And I cranked out not one, but two CDs this year, thank you very much, an enormous amount of work, but I loved every minute of it. And I continued to blog, and to get a lot of my stories down on paper, which I have been wanting to do forever. Thank you so much to all of you who come here to read the tales of my life, and dumb shit I have done.

And just because I am so grateful to you, dear readers, for your eyes and hearts, I would like to offer a FREE download of a “Winter” song I wrote in 1983, and have rerecorded just recently, titled “Time for Love”. Thanks again and I hope you have a great (and loving) weekend! Ric

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NO FRUITCAKE JOKES!

“Oh yeah, well I KNOW all about fruitcake buddy! I’ve worked in Emergency at a hospital, and I’ve SEEN what fruitcake can do to a person!”

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In 1972, when I began my baker’s apprenticeship, I didn’t know the first thing about fruitcake. But that Christmas, at the Seattle bakery where I worked, the candied fruit started to arrive, in 30 lb. boxes, with pecans, blanched almonds, and other ingredients. I can still see that huge stack of stuff, sitting in the corner of the storeroom, on the day I asked my boss, Karl Ekelmann, “Okay, so what are we gonna do with all that fruit?”

Several days later I found myself, shall we say, fully involved in the making of the fruitcake, with hundreds of pounds of those ingredients strewn out onto our 5’ x 12’ maple workbench. Karl and I poured the white colored and rum fragrant batter onto the top of the fruit and nuts, and then, began to gently turn the pile into a spicy, rich fruitcake mixture, using the full length of our arms. It was tiring. Basically, a good fruitcake contains mostly fruit and nuts, and very little batter. We finished, hosed down, and scaled the finished batter into round pans and full sheets, and baked it at a low temperature all day. When it was almost finished, we pulled the pans from the oven, one at a time, and topped all the cakes with fruit and nuts we had held out as topping, after, of course, soaking it all in rum and flavorings, and finally, brushed on a sweet and shiny apricot glaze over all the cakes. The making of that fruitcake, all those years ago, on that day, when I was still in my 20s, the spectacle of it, hooked me on fruitcake. I decided to like it.

I worked as an apprentice for 3 years, and then opened “Richard’s Bakery” in Tualatin, Oregon. Later, I opened my second bakery, “Favourites Bakery”, in Portland. Every year, while I was in business, my staff and I would crank out hundreds of fruitcakes, at Christmas time. Since it was an all day affair, I would try to make it fun, have other foods for the staff, maybe bring in a chef to make us something, sort of a Special Christmas Party For Baker’s Only.

In about 1985, after ten years in business, I began to tire of the plethora of “fruitcake jokes” out there, you know, how there is really only one fruitcake, that gets regifted around the world, since no one will eat it, how they make great doorstops, all that. Since I had been interested in fruitcake for some time, by then, I had been trying other fruitcakes every chance I got, and I was not surprised that fruitcake jokes were all the rage, given the many really lousy fruitcakes in the world. After thinking about it, and developing my ideas about it, I wrote a tract titled “In Defense of Fruitcake”, and placed copies of it on my counter for people to take. The basic idea is, if you make it right, use great ingredients, it’s gonna be good. If you make it cheaply, as is done so many times by wholesalers, and well, grannies, trying to save a buck, its gonna be shit. Later, owing to my attitude about fruitcake, and just for fun, I had some stickers made, depicting a big black circle, and slash, forming the newly invented International Sign for “No Fruitcake Jokes.”

Over the years, “In Defense Of Fruitcake” got around. I had sent a copy to “The Retail Bakers of America”, and through them, others found the article. One year, I think it was 1987, I got several small checks in the mail from newspapers around the country, who had reprinted it.

But the coup d’etat was in 1989, when writer Maria La Ganga, of the LA Times, did her research for an article she was doing about fruitcake, and used me, and my tract, as her springboard. The AP came out to my shop and took photos, and on December 13, 1989, the article came out, and was reprinted that year in many papers around the country. In the article, she refers to me as “the father of the fruitcake revolution”. You can imagine what a kick I get out of that. My usual hundreds of pounds of sales went well over a thousand that year. The article is still available to view online at The LA Times archives.

I didn’t get on Letterman, which woulda been a riot, me an’ Dave hurlin’ crappy fruitcakes offa the NBC roof, to see what kind of damage we might generate, but I did get phone calls from all over the country, from DJs, whose attitudes ranged from interested and nice to downright stupid. I would take the calls, negotiate my way through their questioning, and dumb jokes, all the while supporting my position on fruitcake.

When I sold “Favourites Bakery” in 1995, the name went with the sale, so I had to think of another name for my corporation. After very little thought, and since I can be such an impulsive sucka, I wrote “No Fruitcake Jokes, Inc.”, on the application to change the name of the corporation. I kept that name for a number of years, and it did shock and unsettle a few, when writing checks with the corporation name on them, or using business credit cards. Once, at Costco, when I used my “No Fruitcake Jokes, Inc.”, American Express Card, a management person was called over, and he quizzed me. “Sir, uh, what type of business was it that you have?”


Buy a "No Fruitcake Jokes" T-shirt

My story in annoying detail:

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In Defense Of Fruitcake
Copyright Ric Seaberg 1985

Are you, dear friend, one of the chosen, the enlightenend, the few........who enjoys a good fruitcake, chock full of the freshest pecans and candied cherries and pineapple, bound only by ounces of deliciously spiced and perhaps liquored cake batter? Then bless you!

Or are you, poor soul, the one who spouts at the mention of fruitcake, “Makes a damn good doorstop”, or “I hope Aunt Ruth brings her fruitcake this year, ha-ha, we need another football!?” Then shame on you!

In 1975, when I opened my first bakery, at age 27, I will admit that I had my reservations about fruitcake. I was young, inexperienced, and although I’d been exposed to quality fruitcake baking, I had not yet “discovered” fruitcake. I may have even, at some time in my life, given in to “fruitcake bashing” myself, joining in with the legion of misguided individuals who smear fruitcake, the naive, the palateless.

Five minutes ago, here at 3:30 a.m., I turned by hand 100 pounds of beautiful cherries, pineapple, pecans, walnuts and blanched almonds into rum flavor and rum......to soak, and to be used later as the fruitcake topping. The sight of the fruit mixture and the aroma of the flavors are more than heavenly. I know my assistant, Mary, will arrive shortly and exclaim, in a kind of low, sensual tone.....”OHHHHHHHHH,...........Are we making fruitcake today!!!?

So what’sa matter? How did fruitcake acquire do many foes? Folks who are assured that most people in the group will agree with them as they wince and moan and gesture their fingers down their throats that fruitcake makes a better paperweight than food.....?

Years ago, when Aunt Ruth, and millions of others like her were shopping for their fruitcake ingredients, they found something new on the shelf. Something pretty, something inexpensive..........candied citrus peel!!!! “Wouldn’t that make a fine addition to my fruitcake?”, thought Ruth, “and so inexpensive!!” And so, on that day, millions of pretty, but pretty awful fruitcakes were born.

Marvelous little packages, those Currier and Ive embossed canned hostess gifts, masquerading as fruitcake. Those mountains of chain-store gift boxes for the purveyors of the fruitcake myth. The perfectly merchandised two pound cans of batter laced citron, ready to go for $2.99.

In our business, we sell hundreds of pounds of “real” fruitcake each holiday season. I would like to offer several suggestions if you intend on treating yourself to a fruitcake this year:

1. Try to find an independent baker, whose reputation depends on making “good things to eat”.
2. Be prepared to pay handsomely for a good fuitcake.
3. Chill it before slicing
4. Serve it ceremoniously, sliced thin, with a good quality coffee or tea.

Fruitcake, misunderstood and stripped of it’s former stature by greed and corporate merchandising, needs our help! Enjoy a good fruitcake. Invite some friends! And don’t forget to buy one for Aunt Ruth!

Ric Seaberg’s Fruitcake Recipe 

Single recipe (for 9x13 pan). Double recipe in cups and also weight appear to the right of each ingredient.

3 cups dates, pitted and chopped (chop each date into 3 or 4 pieces) Sugared date pieces also available -6c (31.5 oz or 2 lbs)

2 cups candied pineapple chunks 4c (1 lb-5oz)

2 cups dried chopped mango pieces (Like 3/4 inch pieces) 4c (1 lb-5oz)

1 cup chopped candied papapya (not too small!, use your date pieces to inform your chopping size) 2c (11oz)

2 cups candied (glace, pronounced "glah-say)) red cherries 4c (1 lb-5oz)

4 cups walnut halves 8c (2 lbs)

4 cups pecan halves (your nuts must be fresh, taste one! taste good? Then use'm!) 8c-(2 lbs)

1 -1/2 oz rum extract 3oz

1 -1/2 oz PURE vanilla extract (imitation vanilla should be outlawed) 3oz

2 -1/2 cups all purpose flour 5c

2 -1/2 teaspoons baking powder 5t

1/2 teaspoon salt 1t

5 eggs 10

3/4 cup corn syrup ( I use light, but dark works too) 1-1/2 c

1/3 cup brown sugar 2/3c

1/2 cup vegetable oil (like canola) 1c

1 pint or half a fifth of light or dark rum 

Directions:

Day 1- put all your fruit in a bowl. If any of it is larger pieces, cut it into 1/2”-3/4” size pieces. Pour rum over fruit, stir well and cover. Return to stir fruit in bowl 4-5 times in the next 20-24 hours. This serves to flavor and hydrate the fruit!)

Day 2

1. Grease or spray (I use Baker's Joy) a 1/4 sheet pan (9" x 13"), and cover the bottom of the pan with a piece of parchment paper (double batch use a 1/2 sheet pan-12x18)

2. Mix the batter as you would a cake batter, oil and sugar fist until well incorporated. Then add eggs and other ingredients except flour and mix til incorporated. Finally add flour and mix til well incorporated. 

3.Add the batter to the fruit and nut mixture and turn until well incorporated. Be gentle! I like to mixtape it by hand right on my kitchen counter.

4.Pack the finished batter/fruit/nuts mixture into your pan

5.Bake at 275 degrees (135 degrees C) about 2 hours 15 minutes. Remove from oven and let cool. Ovens vary so check your fruitcake out in maybe 2 hours, if it feels quite firm to the touch, it is probably done.

6. Remove from oven and allow to cool at least 2 hours before cutting. I like to cut it into pieces I can easily place into zip lock baggies or celophane bags

7.Cheesecloth and the booze. Some peeps like to wrap pieces of fruitcake in cheesecloth, and then drizzle or spray a little rum, bourbon or brandy onto their fruitcake each week for several (or many!) weeks until the holidays hit, for that extra punch! Keep your boozy fruitcakes in an air tight container to reduce evaporation. And arrange for a driver ;)

Notes: don’t be too crazy strict

with your ingredient selection. I mean aside from ruling out using any citron whatsoever. Maybe you get a good deal on candied pineapple but the papaya is crazy expensive. So go with a little more pineapple and skip the papaya! As long as your total fruit weight is correct it’s okay to modify your fruit selection some. After you have prepared your pieces of fruitcake to eat or use as gifts, I think it is wise to keep them refrigerated in an air tight container or baggie. Some candied and dried fruits are less stable

than others. So keep cold or frozen to retard spoilage! Mwah!! 😚 

My story in annoying detail:

Website: http://www.ricseaberg.com

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/ric.seaberg.5

Blog: http://www.ricseaberg.blogspot.com

CDBaby: http://www.cdbaby.com/m/artist/RicSeaberg

iTunes: https://itunes.apple.com/us/artist/ric-seaberg/id7749841

Soundcloud: https://soundcloud.com/ric-seaberg